THE MEANING OF AUTUMN

AUTUMN whispers the tones of yesterday in a minor key ~ Gemma Wiseman

AUSTRALIA ~ The Antipodes

AUSTRALIA ~ The Antipodes
I love a sunburnt country / A land of sweeping plains / Of ragged mountain ranges / Of droughts and flooding rains / I love her far horizons / I love her jewel-sea / Her beauty and her terror / The wide brown land for me / ~ Dorothea Mackellar (1885-1968)

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Friday, November 30, 2007

You have the touch

You have the touch…
Of rainbows rising on wet roads after the rage and fury of dark storms…

You have the touch…
Of dawn breezes and new glows after troubled midnights…

You have the touch of horizons…
The smiling promise of golden tomorrows…

You have the touch of stars…
Silver dreams
Sailing
Heavenly waters…

You have the touch of music…
Melodies
Haunting
Carressing
Timid keys
And virgin strings…

You have the touch of peace…
The inner voice…
The wings…
For a lost child…

The journey of questions


The journey of questions can be a lonely road…
A slow traveller by the sea…
Translucent shapes in misty rain…
Blue illusions…
Four winds…
Weeping gold…
The second breath of Spring…
White cloud on a quest for old Sorrento…

In the early tears of light…
The coastal road sighed by shimmering glassy waters…
The Painter splashed a few colours…
The buzz of ocean villages…
Awakening…
But the limpid magic of signs drifted by…

Four winds whispering in weeping gold…
White cloud yearning…
Blue illusions of old Sorrento
Waiting…

There was no fanfare of destination…
The body was there…
But watered visions of passing moments charmed the soul…
Echoes of old mansions by the sea…
Laced with new gardens…
Gentle distractions from inner questions…
Till suddenly the road arched upwards…
To a clutter of bright names…

Bright golds…
Bright silvers…

Dark doors…
Dark windows…

Empty tables…
Empty chairs…

By the sea…

Old Sorrento…
Blue illusions…
Waiting…

Few footsteps wandered Sorrento at this time of day…
The cacophony of tourist mayhem begins late…
Happiness is being a lonely traveller…
A spirit free to be moved by the delights of wonder…

The Painter offered a palette of colonial buildings
Gowned for a dance through the years…
Some mingled well in the dance…
Alight with the glow of a new partner…
A new love…
A new lifetime…
But others seemed to wait
Stark and cold…
Fragile whispers from old questions…
Love me? Can you still love me?

But this was not my question…
So carefully I moved on…

Tourist hour was drawing close…
Too soon…white clouds could slip away…

Blue illusions of the spirit guided me to a bookshop…
I had tried the Antipodean world of books…
Tiny gaunt building
White…
Dragged from some servant’s yesterday it seemed…
I thought that was the question…
Sadly…the doors were closed for now…
And the windows only offered some awkward array of vague paintings…
Books seemed to be tucked in some backdoor darkness…
Antipodean…
The name seemed right…
But the question was wrong…

Bookshop…really a newsagent with a dimension of books…
Too many white lights…
Too many choices…
Too many novelties…
I expected nothing…

Blue…a blue cover…just waiting…
“Slow Travel”…
And below the title…
“Sell the house, buy the yacht and sail away…”

Trembling…

Inside the cover…
A map…entitled…
“The Voyage of White Cloud”…

Sorrento…
Gift of the four winds…
Blue illusions…

And questions…

Monday, November 26, 2007

Free Gift

Behind the door is a smiling landscape
Outside the window is a new world
Behind the grey is a whimper of sunlight
A step is progress


Take only nibbles on your journey
A blanket, a compass and torch
But leave a little room for small cuttings
From old lifetimes
To blossom in a new place
A new season

Tomorrow is waiting
For you
To embrace living
Again

And when the rains weep on this new world

And the winds blow wild and cold
Seek the flame of candle glow
The inner flame
Burning softly

Remember me?
Remember me?

Tomorrow


 Perhaps
The window
Is all that separates me from the darkness beyond

The glass
Reflects
The fuzzy light of all that I am

 Should I fear
To step
Beyond
And wander
Blind
In some tomorrow
That is really not

 Or wait
For sleep
To shield me in timeless dreaming

To understand me

To understand me

To understand me, perhaps a few tangibles may help.

If I were the sky, I would be a cloud drifting, reshaping, reinventing, but always enigmatic. If I were the earth, I would be a rock, bathing in the rush of a waterfall.

If I were a tree, I would be a willow, that soft lacy wandering in the whims of beezes, dreaming quietly by water.

If I were a place, I would be Sheffield in Tasmania; coloured with murals whispering of other lifetimes; wrapped in the mystery of blue mountains flecked with snow.

If I were a shop, I would be Berkelouw’s rambling magic of a homestead, alone in serene farmland, in Berrima NSW; graced with an intimate cafĂ©, window boxes of vibrant geraniums and a wonderful log fire hosted by an old armchair. And of course, those books forgotten by the mainstream bookworld.


But, I am none of those things, for now.

For now, I am just some eerie etchings on a white slate.

“Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass. It is about learning to dance in the rain."

Shreds and Threads

The time has come. A new name, a new lifetime for an old soul.

AuraGem is still within, sparkling deep, but the world needs real people. And so sadly, I must become a real name.

I like Gemma. There is still just a whisper of AuraGem. And Wiseman is not so common a surname. I linger happily in a world where names are only a hint of real people.

Shreds unravelling yesterdays, to make room for the new weaves of tomorrows.

I give you, Gemma Wiseman.

CALENDAR

Tasmania

Tasmania
A place of beauty in the Western Tiers

Tasmania

Tasmania
View near Blackwood Park Cottages, Mole Creek

New Landscapes

New Landscapes
New Worlds

Archive of Blog Quotes

  • A perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing, the birds are singing, and the lawn mower is broken. ~James Dent
  • Autumn is an introspective season when stray thoughts of the mind dive into the mystique of the soul - Gemma Wiseman
  • Autumn is the bridesmaid of Summer and the flowergirl of Winter ~ Gemma Wiseman
  • Autumn whispers the tones of yesterday in a minor key ~ Gemma Wiseman
  • Love is born / With a dark and troubled face, / When hope is dead / And in the most unlikely place; / Love is born, / Love is always born. - Michael Leunig's Christmas Song Cycle "Southern Star"
  • Spring paints the stars of heaven in Earth colours ~ Gemma Wiseman
  • Summer sizzles with a sibilant hush / Broken by dreams of / Clinking ice ~ Gemma Wiseman
  • The object of a new year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul. - G.K. Chesterton
  • Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all. - Stanley Horowitz
  • Winter is the fire, simmering lonely in the soul ~ Gemma Wiseman
  • Winter is the shadow, the etching of the seasons in the mist ~ Gemma Wiseman

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The Inner Light of the Spirit

The Inner Light of the Spirit
The Spirit of Inner Light

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